No Short Cuts
by Emz6347
Summary: Soulmarks were rare, only about 5% of the population had their skin marked. So it was ironic that a sociopath who believed sentiment was a weakness was blessed with one, and whatever Sherlock told his brother, working as a Consulting Detective was always an attempt to meet his match. When he does, will he have any idea what to do? Fem!Harry
1. Chapter 1

**Credit for the prompt goes to Skendo**

 **I don't own Sherlock or Harry Potter**

* * *

"Did Andy ask you out _again_?" Harry asked, incredulous. "And you said no _again_?" Soo Lin nodded, sighing. Harry shook her head, pushing her glasses up her nose. "I don't know why you insist on having no connections here."

"I have you." She said defensively.

"Yeah, and I'm not dead yet am I?" A look. "Alright, I know I'm not exactly easy to kill, but even so! Might be worth breaking your rules for that one, he is cute." That earned her an elbow to the ribs, and a scarlet faced Soo refused to comment so they moved down the corridor in silence.

They made an odd picture. Soo Lin with her dark eyes and blue flower dress looked very put together next to Harry, who's hair stuck out in odd directions as though she'd just rolled out of bed, partially obscuring her bright green eyes and a curiously shaped scar. The only feature they shared was their dark hair, but even there Harry's hair was several shades deeper, pitch black.

Rolling up the sleeves of the white shirt she was wearing Harry turned the handles, opening the door for Soo Lin. As she carefully put away the tea set she called out to Harry.

"Are we going to risk going back to the flat tonight? He hasn't done anything since I sent him away." She poked her head around the door. Harry was standing in front of a statue, blocking it from her view, with the cover crumpled in her fist.

"Soo, you need to see this." Her voice was steady, but held a note of panic that Soo Lin recognised, and it was enough to make her hurry forwards to see what about the marble had made her voice so.

She almost screamed.

"It's his mark isn't it?" She nodded mutely. Harry nodded to herself, seeming to think something over, and then held out a hand to her. "Well come on then." She looked at her blankly.

"What?" The younger woman shook her head. "He will find me, you must leave. If he finds out someone else knows that he is here."

"No." Harry pulled at her hand stubbornly. "If you think I'm just going to leave and let one of my friends get murdered you've got another thing coming. Now come on." She looked around the room appraisingly then back at Soo. "We need to hide you."

* * *

"Somebody left here in a hurry three days ago."

"Somebody?"

"Yes, Soo Lin Yao. But there's something else." Croaked Sherlock as he loosened the scarf around his neck, reminding him uncomfortably of the strangling a few minutes previously.

"Oh yes?" Asked John, still irritated from being locked out.

"Yes." Answered Sherlock, oblivious. "There were two people living in that flat."

"So what? Boyfriend?"

"Female. They haven't been back either, so they're probably hiding with her. Or nearby."

"And where is she?" Sherlock glanced around, looking for the answer as he so often did. He spotted a note on the floor, stooping to pick it up. Flipping it over, he saw the logo for the National Antiquities Museum, flashing it to John he stepped out onto the street, closing the door behind him.

"We can start with this."

* * *

"When was the last time that you saw her?" He strode round the room, eying everything, looking for anything that would give him a clue on her location.

"Three days ago, here at the museum. This morning they told me she'd resigned, just like that..." Sherlock tuned him out, still looking for evidence. He felt eyes on him and looked up, but there was only an assistant, talking to a tourist. He tried to deduce them, the man was American, married, but cheated on his wife last night by the wrinkles in his shirt. Unimportant.

The assistant, was... What was she? He couldn't get much more than an age and an irritation at the American. Consoling himself that he was a distance away, Sherlock turned back to the man. He'd deleted his name.

"What was the last thing that she did on her final afternoon?"

As they were lead away, he felt her stare on his back again. Turning his head to look at her he saw she was glaring daggers, if he were anything less than a Holmes, he would have recoiled. He merely gave her a haughty stare of his own, unsure of what he might have done to offend her, but then that was nothing new really. He had a tendency to irritate people.

* * *

Only a day later, they were back in the museum. John and Soo Lin sitting either side of her station while he stood beside them. Well, Sherlock thought, she did well. She hid for four days with no one finding her, but she did have an accomplice. However that was not of importance for the moment.

"I had to finish, to finish this work. It's only a matter of time. I know he will find me." Soo Lin tells them of her old life as a smuggler for the Black Lotus. Of footsoldiers and Bosses and Zhi Zhu, the one behind the message.

"I managed to leave that life behind me." Tears well up in her eyes, and John has to look away for a second. He knows that now, whatever happens her past will always follow her. "I came to England. They gave me a job here, I had friends. Everything was good. New life."

"But he came looking for you."

"Yes. I hoped that after five years, they would have forgotten me. But they never really let you leave. In a small community like ours, they are never very far away. And now I have put others in danger." Tears slip from her eyes and roll down her cheeks as she thinks of Harry. They are not above blackmail, she knows.

"Do they know you were sharing a flat?" John leans forward, worried that a fourth person might have to die because of this whole mess. Soo Lin nods, fresh tears now streaming from her eyes.

"She was not there when he came to me, but they are always watching."

"She helped you hide. Did she know about your past?" Sherlock asked this time, wondering how much she could tell them, if the Spider did catch up to Soo Lin.

"Yes. Even when she saw my mark, she refused to leave me. Even when he threatened us."

"This man, you knew him well?"

"Oh yes, he is my brother." That surprised him, but he really should've expected it from the fingerprints on that photograph in her flat. "He came to me and asked me to help him recover something that was stolen."

"And you have no idea what it is?" She shook her head sadly.

"I refused, for my brother has become their puppet, in the power of the one they call Shan. Black Lotus General. He said I had betrayed him. Next day we found the cipher."

"Can you decipher this?" Sherlock slapped the pictures of the code onto the table in front of her.

"These are numbers."

"I know."

"Here, across the man's eyes. It is the Chinese number one."

"And this is the number fifteen. But what's the code?" She sat back in her chair, knowing that revealing the code was a death sentence if she did not already have one. Ignoring this (she was going to die anyway, no matter how hard Harry tried) she started to explain.

"All the smugglers know it. It is based upon a book-"

And the lights went out.

* * *

"God." John almost moaned as he took in Soo Lin's body, splayed out across her table, eyes wide and glassy with a lotus placed on her palm. He was about to move forwards when he felt something hard and cold dig into the back of his neck. He froze.

It didn't feel like a gun barrel, maybe a knife point? Whatever it was, it was being pressed against his skin like it should cause harm, so he didn't want to take the chance of moving. He could just _sense_ , that there was somebody behind him, could almost hear their light exhales. But no voice came, no threats or warnings. He opened his mouth to speak but the object twisted harshly in warning, so he kept his mouth shut.

Running footsteps reached his and his captor's ears as he felt them tense behind him. Not their ally then? That meant that it was Sherlock, and even though the bloody bastard was late, they had a better chance of getting out of here alive. When Sherlock rounded the corner and saw John's predicament he froze. His eyes flashed with recognition as he recognised the assistant from yesterday. But it was the weapon that she held to John's neck that made his blood run cold.

"Let him go." The dark haired woman looked from the lifeless form of Soo Lin to him, back again and the straightened further. She took a half step back, but looked up before removing her weapon from his skin.

"This thing doesn't need skin contact to do damage."

And for once in his life, Sherlock Holmes was speechless.

* * *

 **This was kind of a prolouge, showing how Harry (her full name is Harriet) has fitted into the plot of Blind Banker. More details on everything will be next chapter. There will be around three chapters, depending on how much people want. Please review,**

 **Thanks,**

 **Em**


	2. Chapter 2

_An eleven year old Sherlock stood in his bedroom, staring into the mirror. Even at this age, he was already very logical. He_ _ **knew**_ _that there was absolutely no way words could have appeared on his skin overnight. Curving across his collarbone from one side of his chest to another were nine words;_ This thing doesn't need skin contact to do damage. _Nevertheless, they were there._

 _The writing was clearly not made with a pen, the distribution of ink was too uneven. He recognised it from a few old scripts in the Holmes library. The words had been written with a quill. Who wrote with quills? A history enthusiast maybe?_

 _And then there was the weapon the message was obviously written about. Something that didn't need skin contact, a gun then? But why would they need to state how it worked? Unless they were trying to be threatening (and in Sherlock's opinion failing), but why would they want to threaten an eleven year old? Presuming it was his message, it was on his skin after all. Maybe Mycroft would be able to get more from it? He cringed at the thought._

 _"Sherlock, dear? Are you coming down?"_

 _"Of course I am, Mummy." Hurriedly he re-buttoned the shirt he wore to cover the new additions and flew down the stairs, curly hair bouncing. The Holmes family was already congregated in the living room, settled on the suite surrounding a roaring fire. His parents sat together on the sofa, sipping large mugs of tea and smiling up at him._

 _Mycroft, although only just a legal adult, sat straight backed in an armchair with a newspaper open on his knee. Positively middle aged, Sherlock thought. As though he could sense Sherlock was doing something irritating, even in his mind, Mycroft peered condescendingly at him, assessing him critically._

 _"What is it now little brother?" Sherlock sneered at the much hated title that seemed, to him at least, not an expression of fondness but a reminder that Mycroft was, and always would be, better than him (at least in age). He pulled a face at his brother, which earned him a disapproving stare from his mother, but pulled down the collar of his shirt. His mother gave him a confused look but Mycroft just flicked up his newspaper in dismissal._

 _"There's nothing there dear." The newspaper shifted down again._

 _"Honestly, Mummy, I expected more from you. There are several extensive texts in the library." He shifted in his chair until he was sat in the pose Sherlock had internally deemed 'Drama Queen'. Looking down on Sherlock Mycroft prepared for the reveal._

 _"Have you ever heard of soulmates, Sherlock?"_

* * *

Since then Sherlock had studied soulmarks and the soulmate bond closely. Well, as closely as he could. Soulmarks were incredibly rare, and considered so sacred that not many people were willing to let studies be conducted. He thought that was an utterly stupid, not to mention very inconvenient superstition.

Sherlock had, of course, conducted his own investigations. It seemed that others could not see his mark, and he couldn't tell them what it said. Every time he tried he would feel a powerful compulsion not to, impossible to ignore, even for him. He'd searched in vain for the source of the influence in his mind palace, but it seemed that just like the mark was perfectly normal skin, the feeling was nothing more than a feeling.

Pointless. That was what the young boy scouring ancient books with dust in his hair had thought. Pointless. What was the point of having a mark if you couldn't tell your supposed soulmate? And what if he didn't like whoever it was?

So Sherlock did what was (to him) the logical thing. He ignored it. He scoffed at his blessing and listened to Mycroft, growing to believe wholeheartedly, that caring is not an advantage.

Later, once he had stopped taking Mycroft's word as law, and grown out of his ambition to become a pirate, he told himself that caring had nothing to do with his career.

* * *

"What the _hell_ do you-"

"Shut up."

"Shut up?! She just held me hostage!"

"John, be quiet." The tone of Sherlock's voice was enough to silence John, who gave him a look of concern. "Soo Lin's flatmate, I take it."

"I was." Both men were startled and a little wary, as men so often are, of the tears that welled up in her emerald eyes. She seemed to be overtaken by her thoughts for a moment, before she came back to herself, blinking away the proof of her lapse. Sherlock took a deep breath, trying to get a handle on his own feelings. He felt the powerful desire, powerful _need_ to stop whatever was hurting her. To make it go away. It was irrational, but he couldn't help it.

"How much did you know of her past?" She (Sherlock really needed to find out her name) was on her guard immediately, which as far as Sherlock was concerned was enough of an indication. "The organisation that she worked for is still active in London."

"Are you going after them?" Her hope was almost palpable.

"Yes. I'm assuming you want to offer your assistance?" That could be very useful. Her...skills were obviously worth a lot, and a very large part of Sherlock wanted desperately to keep her close, ached at the thought of never seeing her again. A smaller part thought that this was an irrational, foolish, an all around stupid impulse. He ploughed forward.

"Yes. I'm assuming you know what this is?" She held up the slim stick of wood. Her wand. He nodded, ignoring John's obvious confusion. "Can I ask how?"

"My brother is, on occasion, something of a liason between your world and the government. _I_ am a good eavesdropper." She nodded absently, clearly distracted.

"Of course, we will need to know some details. For all we know, you were spying for the Black Lotus." The expression on her face flickered from indignation, to understanding, and finally became resigned. Her eyes scanned over the room, carefully avoiding Soo Lin's body. They settled on an obviously unused desk in the lighter corner of the room. Striding towards it she swung the chair round so it was facing the room, gesturing for them to find their own chairs. After they were all seated she turned back to Sherlock.

"I don't want to stay here long, for obvious reasons. Where do you want to start?"

"Your name will do." One corner of her lips came up, as though she wanted to smile, but was not quite capable.

"My name is Harriet Potter."

* * *

 **The reaction to this story has been incredible, and I'm sorry this took so long to get up, and for the shortness. The next chapter will hopefully be a lot longer. How long this story will be will depend on how popular it stays, but I'm currently thinking about five parts. Thanks and please review!**

 **Thanks,**

 **Em**


	3. Chapter 3

"How many murders is it going to take before you start believing this maniac's out there?" John is almost spitting, so utterly done with this man and his attitude. Dimmock marches past him, refusing to look at or acknowledge him. Sherlock is too preoccupied watching Harriet to tell him his approach is useless. She is staring at Dimmock's back resignedly, as if she had hoped for better, but was expecting this.

"A young girl was gunned down tonight, that's three victims in three days, you're supposed to be finding him!" She winces at the mention of her friend, and although she shifts forwards, wanting to intervene, doesn't. Probably knows it's useless. Obviously been in this position before, and isn't giving information to the police, so no trust in the authorities (not that he thought they were trustworthy), most likely from previous experience. Sherlock shakes himself and moves towards Dimmock, ready to make his point.

"Brian Lucas and Eddie VanCoon were working for a gang of international smugglers. A gang called the Black Lotus, operating here, in London, right under your nose." Dimmock turns to look up at him, scepticism splashed across his features.

"Can you prove that?"

"We have a witness to everything! How is that possibly not enough for you?!" John's hands have curled into fists again, but Harriet just shakes her head and sighs.

"Of course it's not John. Pretty much nothing will be when he's already decided he doesn't want to know." Her green eyes send a piercing look at Dimmock, as if she's scanning him, assessing him according to some unknown criteria, but if she's reached a verdict it doesn't show on her face.

She stands, then shrugs and calls over her shoulder as she walks away, "I have a feeling your friend will be, though." Sherlock tries not to preen at the compliment, it's only a factual observation, and the next moment is trying not to panic as he realises she's heading towards the door. What is this woman doing to him? Harriet pauses at the door, whirling around to face them (and Sherlock likes to think specifically him), "I'll be around."

And with a final twitch of her lips that might just have been a smile, she was gone.

"Cigarette."

"Imagine."

John tried, he really did, but after three hours of listening to Sherlock rifle through pages, occasionally calling out a match and dropping a book on the table for him to note down, his brain could no longer stand the circular thoughts.

"So?" He leaves the word hanging in the air.

"What?" John wonders how Sherlock can make chit-chat with royalty if it's required for a case, but with him the obvious implication is always ignored. He tries anyway.

"What do you think about her then?"

"Who?"

"The witch? Harriet. Magic. For someone who's always going on about logic, you're taking this surprisingly well." Sherlock doesn't even pause.

"When you have eliminated the impossible whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth." John scoffs.

"Very fancy, but how do you feel about her?"

"What?"

"Well, you weren't, you know, your usual self when she was around." Sherlock closes his current book with a snap.

"Pouring. My usual self?" John notes down the word and title, before looking up at him.

"Yeah, your usual self, an inconsiderate arsehole. You seemed to- well not care, exactly, but you were more-"

"She's my, uh, my soulmate." It slips out in a desparate attempt to make John stop talking, the words sounding so awkward out of his mouth, so wrong that he could be attached, bound, to anyone. Indisputable proof that Sherlock Holmes had a heart.

John's jaw dropped.

"You have a soulmark?"

"Yes, that's what I just said isn't it?" John was still floundering.

"And she said it?" He rolled his eyes this time, giving an irritated sigh.

"Yes."

"Well." John turned back to the table, tapping his pen a few times while Sherlock flicked through pages. "What're you going to do?"

"I'm trying to crack the cipher, solve this case-"

"About Harriet. You can't just pretend this hasn't happened Sherlock. Have you told her?" John swivelled round again, looking up at him inquiringly. Sherlock's hands clenched around the book he was holding. John thought that he hadn't picked up a new one since he mentioned soulmates.

"I can't." John looked away, realising his mistake. That wasn't how soulmates were supposed to work. Most people thought in order for it to be a healthy relationship the marked had to create a connection naturally. No doubt he had just reminded Sherlock that this was one of the, admittedly rare, times when he probably had no idea what to do. How to make a connection.

"Sorry."

"Why?" John just shook his head.

Sherlock hadn't heard the door open, or Mrs Hudson's voice, or footsteps on the stairs, yet when he turns around she is standing in the doorway.

"How're you doing?" His brain is wildy deducing everything. Her accent, Surrey. Her shoes, multiple types of- and then her eyes (green, so green, can't possibly be natural) look up at him and everything just stops. He hasn't answered her.

"Fine."

"Good. That's good." She's pale, her skin looking almost transparent in the morning light. He realises she's swaying on the spot, and everything that had ground to a halt seconds ago roars to life, help protect help rips through him, and suddenly she's in his arms and his senses are full of her. Slowly he sets her down on the couch, avoiding the curious eyes that scan him, assess him, as he steps back.

"What have you been doing?" Something goes unsaid at the end of his question, but she seems to know better than him what it is.

"Conducting my investigations. What've you been doing?" She glances around pointedly at the haphazardly placed crates, the scattered books. He explains the cipher, the grueling task of finding the right book, and she looks around a second time.

"I'm sorry, I don't know what the book is." He hadn't even asked her, assuming she would say if she knew. She sounds so guilty, and he wonders why she thinks it's her responsibility to have the answers. It's irrational.

"I assumed you didn't." Nodding in acknowledgment, she moves to take John's place at the table (when did John leave?) and picks up a book.

"We'd better get to work then." He moves back to his spot, and sinks back into his mind palace, cataloguing every book, trying not to miss a match.

When he surfaces again the sun is pouring in through the windows and Harriet is slumped over on the table, out cold. If she stays in that position she will have a painful crick when she wakes up. As he tucks her carefully into his bed, he tells himself firmly that she will need to be in peak condition the next day. That's why he's doing this.

He can't find a reason for the light kiss he presses into her hair.

I'm cutting my losses and calling this story complete here, but I've been constantly surprised and grateful for the response this has received. (Rest assured, Sherlock and Harry get a happy ending, and Moriarty definitely gets oppugno-d!)

Thanks,

Em


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